


Here is the Repeated Image of the Lover Destroyed

by blueabsinthe



Series: Hide the Night [16]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, New York Rangers, Tampa Bay Lightning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-16
Updated: 2012-05-16
Packaged: 2017-11-24 06:20:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/631380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueabsinthe/pseuds/blueabsinthe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We all fall down ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here is the Repeated Image of the Lover Destroyed

**Author's Note:**

> Title of story from the Richard Siken poem, _Litany in Which Certain Things are Crossed Out_

He thinks falling is supposed to feel like this. The seemingly, never-ending falling through time and space. Hearing Hank as he told him it was Vince who called echoed in his chest like a drum.

Brad was silent as he let Vince's name run through his veins. He's not sure when things got this complicated, or even why they were this complicated. It really shouldn't be this complicated. 

He's already decided.

Hank has his lips pressed against his hair. His body is warm, and inviting. Brad thinks he could get lost in his arms. It's somewhat of a comforting thought. He shifts closer, and sighs, letting his eyes flutter close as Hank runs a hand through the damp strands, murmuring in Swedish. 

"Hank?" Brad breathes.

"Hm?"

"I don't want you to think -"

"- that you knew it was Vince calling?"

Brad leans his head away slightly, eyes Hank silently. "I didn't think he would. I was actually hoping the call was from -"

Hank presses a finger to Brad's lips. "You don't have to explain, Brad."

He gripped Hank's wrist, ran his thumb over the pulse point, before he slid Hank's finger from his lips. "I know, but I want to."

"Brad," Hank starts.

"Hank," Brad says, holding onto Hank's wrists with his hand. "I wasn't entirely honest on why it took two weeks to finally come here."

Hank eyed Brad silently. "Go on."

"After I told Vince _adieu_ on the phone, I was so torn. Part of me knew it was over, that it had been for a long time. There were times over all those years where I tried to end it. But, it just … all those years with Vince … it felt like there was a tether keeping us chained to the other. I kept going over all the instances where I could have severed all ties, but couldn't."

"It's hard letting go of over a decade's worth of history," Hank remarked.

Brad just nodded. "I mean, how can you possibly end the only thing you've known for what feels like forever?"

"Is this the part where you tell me you found a way out?"

He rolled so he was laying on his back. Brad stared up at Hank's vast ceiling as he spoke. "There was a moment when I thought Vince and I would outlast it all. That no matter what happened, we would always find some way back to the other." He slid his eyes to Hank, and held his gaze. "I was wrong."

Hank brushed the hair off of Brad's face, leaned in and pressed a kiss to his forehead, as his hand continued to stroke Brad's hair. "You don't have to say anymore."

"Y'know, there was a time at the end of last season where I thought about taking Tampa's offer. Selfish reasons, I guess. There was still a small part of me that wanted to believe if I was back in Tampa it would fix everything. It would fix everything that was broken while I was in Dallas." Brad sighed. "But, then Vince called me when he was on his honeymoon …" his voice trailed off, and he blinked back tears as his and Hank's eyes locked. "And, well, you know the rest."

Hank says _Brad_ , his voice sounding like silk over skin, like he knows exactly how Brad feels. And, Brad doesn't know what to say, cannot come up with the words, and, finally, he breaks down. 

"Sorry … I'm sorry, so sorry," he sobs, even though he's not sure that's the appropriate thing to say. Brad feels as Hank pulls him close, his hand running through his hair, mouth murmuring Swedish phrases against his skin. It sounds like a prayer.

"Brad," Hank says, "shh. It's okay. Shh. I know. I know. _Jag är her … Jag älskar dig … det ska vara oaken_."

Eventually, Brad falls back against the sheets, Hank settling between his legs. Brad is running his hands down Hank's arms, listens to the little hitch of breath in Hank's throat as his fingers trail over his skin. Brad looks up at him, his eyes haunted - looking at Hank like he is the only one who can banish the ghosts - like they are looking right through him. 

"Please," Brad breathes. 

Hank doesn't quite know what Brad is asking for in that instance, only that he was powerless to say no to whatever it was Brad asked. 

"Brad," he whispers, dipping his head slightly, his mouth hovering inches over Brad's. " _Berätta vad du behöver_. Tell me what you need."

"You. Just you."

Brad curls an arm around Hank's neck, pulls him down, his lips catching on Hank's almost immediately. His moans are muffled by Hank's mouth, his hands scrambling against Hank's shoulder blades, and down his back, before his hands come back up and twist in Hank's hair. 

Hank shifts, before he starts kissing, biting, and licking his way down Brad's form. He licks a line up the insides of Brad's thighs, bites and sucks at the flesh, listens to the little hitch in Brad's throat as his lips brush slightly over his cock. He licks into his hole, as Brad lets out a string of curse words, and his thighs tremble as Hank fucks him open with his tongue. 

"Fuck … Hank … please …"

"Shh," Hank whispers, before he takes Brad's cock in his mouth, swallowing him deep. 

"Shit," Brad gasps, his hips arching off the bed as Hank's tongue runs along the underside.

Hank pulls back when he feels Brad getting close to the precipice. 

"Fuck, Hank … don't stop … I just -"

"You sure?"

"Yes, please … Hank, please. I don't think I'll be able to stand it if you -"

"Shh, Brad."

Hank yanks open his nightstand drawer, grabs the lube and a condom. Brad's chest is flush, his cheeks a rosy colour, his legs spread wide. Brad is stroking his cock, biting his bottom lip as he watches Hank tear the foil. 

"No," he murmurs, as Hank extracts the condom from the packet. 

Hank stops with the tip of the latex poised over the head of his cock, and glances up. "Brad -"

Brad scrambles into a sitting position. "I want you … all of you. I trust you, Hank. Please …"

"I don't want to hurt you," Hank says. 

Somehow Brad doesn't think it's just the sex Hank is referring to in that instance, but he doesn't think on it too long as he reaches a hand out to take the condom out of Hank's grasp. 

"You won't. You can't. Please, Hank … _s'il te plaît_."

Wordlessly, he turns Brad onto his stomach and sinks into him. Long, steady thrusts that have Brad fisting his hands in the sheets. Brad pushes back against Hank, his sobs muffled by the linen as Hank's hand curls around his cock, works it with one hand while he thrusts relentlessly. Brad comes shortly after, which causes Hank to drive into him once more, and he comes, his mouth against Brad's ear. 

"Brad … _Jag älskar dig … Jag älskar dig_."

Brad is overwhelmed, and he collapses against the sheets, staring breathlessly up at the ceiling. He reaches out, interlaces their fingers, and presses a kiss to Hank's wrist. "Hank … _ce n'est pas vrai_ …" 

The rest of the day is spent walking through Central Park, and having a late lunch at a quaint restaurant close to Brad's apartment. They spend the evening curled up on Brad's couch. Eventually, they fall asleep in Brad's bed. 

Brad glances over to his window, watches as the jagged edges of the skyscrapers cut ghostly patterns in the skyline. The quiet rumble of traffic below is calming. 

He hears his phone ring, and he answers it almost immediately, glancing over to make sure Hank is still asleep. Hank shifts slightly, and turns over, but he is still lost in sleep. 

"Hello?" 

He listens as the voice on the other end apologizes for not getting back to his text sooner.

"It's fine."

Brad gets up from his bed, and walks to the window, stares down at the streets of New York, watching as they flit by him as the voice asks what he needed.

"My house in Tampa?" Brad asks. He watches the streets, listens to the sounds of the city that never sleeps, before he inhales deeply, and says, "I need an estimate on it."

"An estimate? Can I ask why?" 

Brad bites his bottom lip, wonders if he can get through the rest of his life without having to press the self-destruct button. He hears the sheets as they rustle, and he pulls his thoughts away from Vinny, and his past, as he turns and stares at the bed. Watches Hank in the darkness as he sleeps, and he thinks he can. Make it through that is. 

"Brad?" his realtor says.

Brad forces himself out of his reverie. "I was thinking of selling it."

-x-

**Author's Note:**

> \- _Jag älskar dig_ \- I love you  
>  \- _det ska vara oaken_ \- It'll be okay  
>  \- _ce n'est pas vrai_ \- This is not real


End file.
